


Live Chat

by chucks_prophet



Series: Call Me When You Need My Love [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bad Puns, Bathrooms, Coffee Shops, Dean in Panties, First Meetings, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Neck Kissing, POV Castiel, Panties, Paramedic Dean, Sexual Content, Sexual Humor, Tattooed Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 16:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10575516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Cas isn’t quite sure how he ends up plastered against the rickety wall of a bathroom stall, but he doesn’t have the voice to complain.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don’t know. xD This should have been called Pirates of Punzance for all the cheesy puns. Hopefully you enjoy the second and final installation of this fic. Comments and kudos always appreciated. <3
> 
> Also, reading the first fic in this series would serve to be beneficial, as this is the direct continuation.

Cas, after exchanging his info with Dean, arrives at a local coffee shop where they agreed to meet, bubbling with excitement. The shop is just as bubbly, between his frothy espresso dancing in tune to the indie pop music spilling from the outside overhead speakers. Even the waiters and waitresses can be described as such, zooming around the patio like Pacmen in classic mode. Likely for tips, but even so it adds to the ambiance, and Cas can't help the smile that parts his lips easier than his cup of Joe.

Okay, maybe it's not the ambience. And maybe Gabe was right. But those are both big maybes, and you know what they say, don't count your chickens before they hatch.

Ten minutes passes and Cas is sticking truer to that statement than he originally presumed.

Dean is nowhere to be seen. 15 minutes goes by. Then 20 minutes. After thirty, his waitress feels so bad for him that she starts visiting more frequently to ask if he needs anything. _Better luck_ , he thinks, but after the third time she asks in five minutes, he settles with a water to rehydrate. He'll need it if he's going to be driving the ten miles back home because, seriously, in a world where your smartphone pings every time so you much as step two feet outside your house and into the non-plexiglass world, he should have at least received a text from Dean by now explaining his tardiness.

That last thought prompts him to lay down a five and start hauling before midday traffic hits. As he's scooting out of his chair, an EMT truck speeds up to the curb of the shop and jerks to an abrupt stop, bells, lights, and all. Everyone turns their head to the sight, including Cas.

To his surprise, the back door bursts open and revealing a man in a neon yellow and green uniform. Lean, too. Particularly graced in his arms. And God, that jawline. Chiseled doesn't cover it. Nor does that ginger brown five o'clock shadow. The guy could _cause_ an accident with how hot he is.

Then he jogs towards Cas with his arms outstretched before falling to his sides with a heavy sigh and says, "Sorry I'm super late, I got called in last minute. I'll tell you what, call me Batman, because this is Gotham and trouble never seems to sleep. Or give _me_ any sleep, for that matter."

Cas is pretty sure his mouth has never dropped wider in his life. He recognizes that voice, and paired with that description he just drew up in his head in relation to the conversation he had yesterday, it’s: "Dean?”

Dean responds taking a bow.

"You're a paramedic?!”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean says, looking down at his brightly colored clothes, “the uniform isn’t that attractive—”

“No, no,” Cas interrupts, “it’s actually kind of hot.”

Cas’s face blanches after the admission, but where Cas lacks in color, Dean makes up for with his blush. “It's sort of the family business, the medical field. Except, my dad and brother are surgeons, so that kinda makes me the runt of the pack."

Cas shakes his head with a chuckle, because Dean looks anything _but,_ "Ha, um... wow, this is... I should probably introduce my hand first."

Dean laughs, which, for any other person, causes their mouths to widen for a social construct called smiling, but for him, it basically opens up the earth to the universe, "Nice to officially meet you, Cas."

And, to top it off like a cherry on top of a frozen sundae, Dean's hand is soft and Dean even lingers a bit as they shake. "You too. Shall we sit?"

***

Cas isn’t quite sure how he ends up plastered against the rickety wall of a bathroom stall, but he doesn’t have the voice to complain. Literally, as Dean’s drinking in his deep and, uh, _highly pious_ moans before they can spill out. Their bodies move in rhythm—a tune not hurried, but not too slow, either. Their hands do what their eyes cannot: they steer. They explore every curve, every roundabout, every pothole—every road less traveled and seeing where it leads to.

“Sir, your heart is beating at an alarming rate,” Dean breaks away to say, lips curving into a mischievous smile against Cas’s ear, and says, before dipping to suck Cas’s jaw: “I’m going to try to calm your facial artery.”

Cas bites back a smile of his own. “Mmm, I— _oh—_ don’t think that’s the only problem I’m experiencing.”

“Hmm?” Dean mumbles, moving to suck on the opposite pulse point on his neck, and God, that probably shouldn’t be giving him the high it is, but between that and Dean’s musky smell paired with the sweat of the day, he’s only coming down now if it’s from an orgasm.

Cas tightens his grip on Dean’s firm, denim-clad ass to bring them impossibly closer: “I-I think that’s your stethoscope in my pocket.”

They continue like this, this time a little faster with their moments until their pants are pooling around their ankles—namely, Dean’s first, as Cas drops to his knees after sucking and pulling on Dean’s nipples to his trim and lightly freckled stomach then his straddle-worthy hips, which are half-covered by the thin flowery waistband of pink, satin panties.

Cas nearly salivates at the sight, with the underwear framing Dean’s hardness so well and, given its material, leaving little to the imagination, but his attention is diverted from that nice display to his left thigh, where there’s a 3-D red and black thunderbolt tattoo. Cas laughs.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you have an emotional attachment to AC/DC.”

Dean actually blushes. The guy’s made to be an underwear model, especially with the pose he’s in right now, leaning against the wall with one arm tucked behind his neck and his legs spread apart, and he’s blushing.

They may only have only known each other less than a day, but Cas thinks he’s falling in love with Dean.

“My dad was supposed to take me to their ’88 tour when I was 10, but he passed away a few months before that,” Dean explains, and despite the twitch in his smile, his green eyes only leave Cas’s to recall the memory flashing behind his retinas: “So, I saved up for a first row seat to see them in Kansas City on their _Rock or Bust Tour_ last year. Best money I ever spent.”

Cas can’t help it: He lifts himself up from the tile, leans forward, and, with one hand cupping Dean’s face, kisses him. Dean leans into the touch and the kiss, but there’s no heat behind it this time. Only affection.

“Mmm,” Dean hums against Cas’s lips before Cas pulls away, “yeah, I have a feeling, alright.”

“What feeling?”

“That you’ll rock my world.”


End file.
